


Just a touch more

by heathtrash



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 11:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21409828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathtrash/pseuds/heathtrash
Summary: Baxter is dressing Mary for the hunt during her family's stay at Brancaster Castle, when things take a turn.
Relationships: Phyllis Baxter/Mary Crawley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	Just a touch more

Mary languished as she sat on the end of the four-poster bed, thumb rubbing against the groove of one of the carved wooden bedposts as she contemplated the porcelain racing dogs on the mantel over the fireplace, limbs lithe, smooth, and white. 

She had been pondering how tiresome these holidays could be, trapped as she was in the schedule of endless social events with men in whom she had very little interest. One of the more inciting parts of the whole affair was the charade of being dressed for each occasion, for even her love of horseriding and hunting could be dampened by whichever well-moneyed dullard she had the misfortune of having to delight for the day. She would give every last farthing minted in the Empire to avoid today’s hunt on the violet rolling heath of the Hexhamshire Moors, where she imagined she would be partnered with this Mr. Talbot—whoever he was—but even that would not help to dissuade her overbearing parents from their mission to force Mary into making a pragmatic match.

A knock came at the door, and Mary bade the visitor enter.

“Baxter—perfect timing. I was just about to die of boredom,” Mary said, pushing herself up from the edge of the bed as Baxter came in. Sharing one’s lady’s maid with her mother _and_ her sister Edith was extraordinarily trying.

Baxter, fully clothed, stood in her awkward, meek way, hands folded neatly before her as she surveyed her mistress, who was in nothing but her chemise and bloomers. The trail of buttons on the front of her dress drew Mary’s eye up to Baxter’s throat, and then to the look in her expression that incontrovertibly betrayed an amount of apprehension at the sight of Mary thus undressed that was surprising for a lady’s maid to exhibit. 

She never felt self-conscious in her underthings—and why indeed should she. Baxter’s hesitancy somehow emboldened and intrigued her, and she found herself speculating as to whether Baxter’s interest was according to the same proclivity for her own sex that Mary herself also shared. Baxter took Mary’s corset from the chest of drawers; Mary held the back still while Baxter fastened the hooks and eyes in the front, before crouching to reach those positioned lower on her body. Mary swallowed down her own arousal at Baxter’s proximity as she knelt before her, and mused instead on the open drawer and how neatly Baxter had arranged her underwear. Baxter had been the one to unpack for her on this occasion, and Mary wasn’t entirely sure, but suspected Baxter had been particularly attentive to her specifically. Mary did not know whether to be flattered by this or whether it was merely Baxter’s way. Regardless—and she meant no slight upon Anna—her mother was fortunate to have such a conscientious maid—and a pretty one, at that.

Mary’s attention was brought sharply back to reality when she felt Baxter’s ice-cold fingers through her chemise on her lower back as she adjusted the lacing, and then a firm tugging from behind as Baxter tightened the lacing.

“Is that secure enough, Milady?”

“Maybe just a touch more,” Mary smirked.

Baxter obliged, and Mary felt her hand upon her back, and then her body lurch slightly as the lacing was pulled a little too hard. Mary didn’t know Baxter had it in her.

“Your hands are quite cold,” Mary commented. At Baxter’s guilty expression, she continued, “Oh—it’s not a criticism. I just hope your accommodations here are warm enough.”

“They are, Milady.” 

Baxter guided the sleeves of an elegant pinstriped blouse onto Mary’s arms, before coming around to the front for the buttons. Mary lifted her chin as Baxter did up the last button at her throat, skin tingling as the fabric brushed up against it. She seldom made Anna do her buttons for her—she was, after all, a capable woman who had no qualms about easing her maid’s duties—but with Baxter she saw this as something of a challenge. She wondered if Baxter would lapse in her professionalism again as she had done upon walking into the room and seeing her in her undergarments.

Baxter crossed to the wardrobe and withdrew the tweed Mary was to wear for the hunt, as well as a soft necktie. She held the skirt open for Mary to step into, and then drew it up and tucked the blouse in neatly while she buttoned it. 

Baxter was taller than Anna—her lips were distractingly close as she leaned nearer, and Mary barely had to dip her head for Baxter to put the necktie around her collar. Baxter’s fingers fumbled over the knot. Could she be feeling it too? It was almost impossible for Mary to catch sight of it, but thought Baxter’s eyes might have wandered as she adjusted the lay of the necktie over the pinstriped shirt, blousing out the tails in an elegant puff—and again as she helped Mary don the tweed waistcoat.

Mary sat at the dressing table for Baxter to arrange her hair—not that there was much to arrange now that she was cropped, but it could take an amount of coaxing to lie flat and sleek once she had tumbled it every direction after a night of frustrating thoughts while she wrestled in her bedsheets for a comfortable position in her insomnia. She felt Baxter’s hand graze her earlobe as she brushed her crisply bobbed hair. The delicate watch on its thin black leather strap encircling her fine-boned wrist winked in the mirror as it caught the lamplight. Mary’s eyes flared tantalisingly up at Baxter through dark eyelashes as she spoke dryly of the hunting party, searching the maid’s expression for any further sign of wavering attention, but the only attention that wandered was her own; Mary found her words falling away from her grasp as Baxter’s cool fingers manipulated her tresses and softened against the short hairs of her nape.

“The jacket, Baxter,” Mary reminded her maid once she had finished dressing her hair. 

“Of course, Milady.”

Mary stood to allow Baxter to assist her. The maid’s hands smoothed the collar and sharp, wide lapels of the grey longline tweed jacket over Mary’s chest and shoulders. Mary’s felt herself melt at the contact, wishing that she could somehow influence Baxter to draw it out longer, but the maid then bent slightly to fold the right side over the left and fastened the buttons over Mary’s hipbones. 

Baxter turned to attend to her mistress’s jewellery box—leaving Mary to catch the breath that she had been holding in while Baxter’s hands had been at her hips—before returning too soon with three brooches in her palm for Mary to review.

“Which brooch would you like today, Milady?”

Mary chose the one in the centre—small, round, set with a pale opal—but as she picked it up, Baxter’s fingers twitched inwards slightly as Mary’s fingers made contact with her sensitive palm.

Baxter, nose a little pinker than before, fingered Mary’s lapel to affix the brooch to the jacket. Mary tried not to watch her—but a sudden grip on her shoulder startled her; Baxter had lost her footing on the corner of the rug—her face turned an ashen shade of grey as the opal brooch slipped from her fingers and fell to the rug at their feet. Mary instinctively seized Baxter around her waist to steady her.

“Oh—Milady—!” Baxter cried out. “I—I’m so sorry—”

“—There’s nothing to apologise for, Baxter. It happens to us all,” Mary replied casually, but there was nothing casual about the way her heart had started to flutter inside her to feel Baxter so near. She realised her hand had lingered there on Baxter’s waist a touch too long. Their contact was no longer in the realms of what was permitted between master and servant; they had not the pretence of dressing to excuse this. 

Mary felt an unbidden warmth in her cheeks as she caught Baxter’s tongue flicking out to moisten her lips. “You are gracious, Milady. But I can’t imagine you ever being clumsy.”

“No?” Mary asked, her interest piqued at the idea that Baxter imagined her at all.

“You’re much too— charming.” The air was still for a moment. Baxter’s eyes widened at her own admission, suddenly aware that she had overstepped a line. 

Mary smiled with the gentle confidence of a cat who knew she had caught her prey, and murmured, “Then let me show you how clumsy I can be.”

She lifted her hand from where it had sat on Baxter’s waist—to brush against the soft cheek, and then unfurled her fingers to trace around her earlobe. She quirked an eyebrow, and said in a wry tone, “_Whoops_.”

Baxter inhaled sharply. “M—Milady, I—”

Mary shushed her. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way those dark eyes roam when you’re dressing me.”

For a moment, Mary was struck by the concern that she was abusing her position and that the wince in Baxter’s eye had been from discomfort. “I suppose I can’t convincingly deny that to you, Milady,” Baxter said, lowering her gaze.

“Not a chance,” Mary said, lips curling into a knowing smile. She ran a finger along her jawline to her lips. “Is this all right?”

Baxter nodded mutely, quivering at her mistress’s touch. Mary felt deliciously in control.

“And what about—” Mary stepped closer into Baxter’s form, and slipped her hand around her lower back, drawing their bodies closer. “This?”

Baxter swallowed. “Y—yes, Milady.”

Mary could feel every inch of Baxter connect with her as they stood together and knew her face was flushing with the feeling sparking through her like electricity. 

“And—” She leaned in, daring herself—daring Baxter—she could bear the tension no longer. “This?” 

“Please.”

Mary—entirely undone by that single, imploring word—lowered her lips to kiss Baxter’s perfect mouth.

Her very skin surged with pleasure as she felt Baxter’s lips respond to her urgency—her breath suddenly shivering in her lungs as she gave into the emotion that flooded through her, drowning any passing fancy of common sense. Baxter was perfect—those hands that had so very recently dressed her now artfully found her upper back, the nape of her neck—Mary wondered how long it had been that Baxter had wanted to caress her quite in that way, before all her wondering ended as she felt Baxter’s touch lowering to the buttons at her hip.

“I think it hardly kind to make you undo all your hard work,” Mary purred as they broke apart for one heady moment, stopping Baxter’s hand with her own as she went to undo the jacket. Baxter’s dark eyes looked into Mary’s helplessly as Mary traced her fingertips over her throat, where the line of buttons held her dress together. “But perhaps it’s my turn.”


End file.
